Bonding Stones
by Vamparino
Summary: Mimi gives everyone a gift for Christmas one year after Angel's death. Will be MarkRoger eventually and is going to be very AU. It's different...
1. What's In a Wish

Title: Bonding Stones

Author: LlamaCatastrophe

Rating: Pg-13 right now..I have no idea what the future holds.

Summary: Mimi gives everyone a gift for Christmas one year. Not much of a summary I know. Will be Mark/Roger eventually and is going to be very AU.

Disclaimer: I own nothing at all. I just own the story idea everything else belongs to Jonathan Larson.

Note: I am planning on making this a rather long story and I am open to ideas and suggestions. So please give feedback, just a few words can make a chapter go so much quicker. Thanks and enjoy!

Chapter 1: What's In A Wish

"December 24th, 10pm, Eastern Standard time. The loft is cold, we have no heat. We are fortunate enough to have some food, courtesy of one hot shot lawyer and her loving future ex-wife again."

The camera zoomed in on Joanne who sat in the middle of the couch with Maureen on her lap. The two chatted about their latest business ventures rather oblivious to Mark's narration. On cue, Joanne gave a shy little wave and laughed as Maureen lovingly pinched her cheeks, bragging about her new job as a weather girl on the local news channel.

Maureen jumped up from her current-former-ex-fiancé's lap and leapt in front of the camera's familiar lens, brandishing a bottle of wine at the glass eye. The diva twirled about a bit then stopped abruptly, placing a hand on her hip as she smiled at the cameraman.

"Are you ever going to crawl out from behind that thing!" Maureen shouted. She tried to sound like a stern parent, but failed miserably given her blood alcohol level.

"Eventually," Mark smiled easily at the teasing. He knows how much the camera loves Maureen, and even more so how much she loves the camera.

The camera panned up from Maureen's feet, where she is wearing red platform heels. Her legs are covered in zebra print stockings, and over her body is Angel's prized Ms. Clause robe.

"Do you truly expect me to take you seriously in that?" Mark chided as Maureen huffed in response. A heavy heel clunked against the hard wood floor as she stomped her foot in protest.

"Hey! That's not fair! Angel asked one of us to wear this on Christmas Eve each year, so we drew straws and I won fair and square."

"What exactly is square about being fair?" Roger chimed in.

Mark's camera panned across the loft to where Roger was lounging on the table by the kitchen. Legs crossed Indian style with a beer poised at his lips. Collins walked into the frame snagging Roger's beer from his hand and taking a healthy swig. Mark laughed audibly at the dumbfounded expression on the former rock god's face.

Swallowing down the beer, Collins sidled up next to Mimi pulling her up from her spot against the window ledge and spinning her around. Dancing with the resident dancer was always one of Collin's favorite past times.

"Nothing technically. Specially seeing as straws are cylindrical, besides I thought being square was like being lame. So how are you lame if you're fair?" Collins added, lifting Mimi's small frame up by her hips, before dipping her form graciously. They danced for awhile longer as everyone ate and laughed.

Mark's camera swept around the loft and he felt himself smiling. This was a family, his family at that. Mark never thought family was defined by blood as much as it was intent. These people intended to be there for each other out of love, not blood. That was a family by their definitions. A group where he could be himself and observe, without detaching from everyone like he had in the past.

Mark felt a strong hand on the back of his neck and jumped at the sudden contact. He turned his head and was met with Roger's smirking form.

"Come on, man. Time to join the fun."

Mark sighed and nodded, saddened at the imminent departure of his security blanket. "Alright just a few more minutes?" He looked up at Roger with the best puppy dog face he could muster. His friend did not waiver. Mark swiveled the camera around so that his outstretched arm aloud it to film Roger's face as well as his own. "Pookie?" Mark jutted out his bottom lip as far as he could.

Roger laughed, a loud and brilliant sound that always helped to make Mark's day go by. How many hours had he spent over the years hearing Roger laugh? How many times had it been because of something he said or did? "Enough," Mark thought to himself.

"Asshole," Maureen muttered from her place next to Joanne, the drama queen was never one for being parodied. Soon the whole room, except for Maureen, was in hysterics and with that Mark accepted that the time had come.

Mark mournfully walked over to a book shelf that was full of junk and paper, not a single book in sight. He gingerly cleared a space where he could leave the camera running and get some more footage.

"Oh wait! I have to go get something!" Mimi shrieked, kicking off her slippers and rushing to the door.

"Wait!" Joanne yelled, the dancer stopped abruptly and spun on her heel. "You're going down there barefoot?" Mimi gave a small child like shrug in response and nodded meekly. "Someone toss this girl some shoes! What's wrong with your slippers anyway?"

"They're…well, old, and the tread part at the bottom has gotten all…slippery, but they are still comfy!" A full red lip pouted in remembrance of her once useable footwear.

"My girl," Roger said wistfully shaking his head and smiling.

"Here. Take these." Maureen tossed Angel's heavy heels at the young girl's feet and she jumped in terror.

"Eep! Don't throw those at me! They could crush me." Mimi shook her head and slid her feet into her old friend's shoes. Lifting a foot slowly, she cautiously made her way to the door. "And she danced in these?" A sea of nods answered her question. "Well dayum."

"They look better on you anyway. Red was never really her color, thought she loved it so," Collins smiled warmly at the thought of his love.

The group chatted away as they waited for Mimi's return. Mark returned to the group and plucked a beer from Collins' hand, walking past him quickly and taking a long swig.

"Hey!" Collins reached a hand out even though Mark was on the other side of the room by the time the thievery registered.

"Revenge is often best served cold, my dear, sir," Roger said in an upper class British accent.

"Oh…so that's how things are now, huh, bitches?" Collins said in a sly tone, as he nodded his head in understanding.

Mark and Roger shared an overly zestful 'high-five' and toasted themselves with Mark's newly pilfered beverage.

"Boys." Maureen sighed, squeaking as Joanne tickled her now bare feet.

Mark couldn't help but admire the two women and their love. He often wished for something like the bond they shared. He envied that no matter how many times they fought they would always come back to each other. He despised their ability to see past all the bad things and just let go and be free and honest with themselves. Though not always honest with each other, Maureen for her part was trying, they made it work.

Mark wanted that. He wanted the connection, bond, trust, honesty, and more than anything the love. The love and undivided attention of another individual. He recalled dimly what it was like to love someone in a relationship, but he could not recall being loved in the same way. Sure, he had loved Maureen, but he was never number one on her list, he could accept that now, but it left him longing for it all the more.

Mark's musings were interrupted by a loud sound coming up the stairs.

Clunk.

"Stupid."

Clunk.

"Fuckin'."

Clunk.

"Shoes."

Mimi appeared in the door way with a small box in her hand, she looked frazzled and out of breath.

Mark, Roger, and Collins, all arched a left eyebrow in unison. Matching smirks soon followed.

Mimi looked up past the ceiling and pointed. "Don't even play that, girl. Angel! I know you're laughing at me, bet you were just waiting for me to get into these," she laughed at herself and took the shoes off, placing them next to the couch.

Mimi sat back down in the corner of the couch and motioned for Mark and Roger to come more into the circle. Roger sat on the back of the couch behind Mimi, one leg tossed over the arm rest. Mark scanned the room and found no seats were readily available so he stood near the couch.

Roger tilted his head at Mark's position in the room. Everyone else was seated comfortably or at the very least with someone, and yet there Mark was, alone off to the side.

"Just like last year," Roger thought to himself. With little thought, Roger reached out and pulled Mark by the elbow over to him. He had his arm around the filmmakers' waist and kept him pressed up against the side of the couch and his leg.

Mark froze, caught completely off guard by Roger's sudden closeness. He turned to Roger and gave him a questioning look.

"It's comfier than standing, besides, you're warm." Roger shared this information and blinked as if there was nothing wrong with it. He had a hand wrapped in Mimi's hair, toying with the curls, and an arm around his best friend's waist and somehow this was completely acceptable in their circle.

For Mark, there was nothing acceptable about having Roger's breath tickle his ear, or having Roger's thumb in his belt loop. Nor was it acceptable when Roger dropped his head and laid it on Mark's shoulder.

Roger took a deep breath and buried his face in Mark's scarf for a moment. The scent that distinctly belonged to his best friend made him smile. To Roger it smelt like comfort. It smelt like, lonely nights of withdrawal turning into affection and words of wisdom. It smelt like years of stupidity and security stretched out into a long piece of fabric. Roger knew his metaphor was stupid, but it was his, and it made him smile to himself.

It wasn't that they had never been this close before. They had fallen asleep on the same bed drunk out of their skulls on more than one occasion. They had been friends for somewhere in the ball park of seven years at that point, so it is not like they never made contact with one another.

Mark shrugged off his surprise and turned his head to face the rest of his friends. If Roger was going to be fine with this randomly closeness, so was he. If Roger could be fine with partially cuddling his friend, so could he. Mark spent a few minutes convincing himself of that, until he felt Roger's form let out a sigh of, what sounded like relief. The sudden rush of hot air, ghosted past Mark's cheek and he let himself close his eyes briefly to take the moment in.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mark saw Roger's lips quirk up in a smile of victory. Much to his dismay, from his angle, he could not make out Roger's eyes. That was usually Mark's sure fire way of reading the guitarist.

"Who knows when this will ever happen again, right?" Mark thought to himself, he decided that he would have to investigate the footage on his camera later. Just in case he was reading too much into the whole situation. Mark mused to himself about how given his over active imagination, over thinking was a distinct possibility in any situation.

Mimi held the small golden box in her hand, her fingers pulling at the velvet red bow that adorned it.

"So, I know we all agreed not to get each other anything," Mimi started, her statement was met with various cries that ranged from excitement to embarrassment. "But you guys have all done so much for me since I came back last year that I needed to do something! It's a really small gesture and it's not that much, but," she paused for a moment, her cheeks tinting a dull red despite her dark complexion.

"Stop stallin', lil' mama, and show us whatcha got!" Collins bellowed.

Mimi smiled warmly at all her friends and shrugged, taking the lid and bow off of the box. "Okay, now everyone take one," she held the golden container above her head and passed it to Roger.

The rock-star dipped his hand into the box and removed a small black stone that had gold streaks running through it in various directions. It was smooth all over, except for a jagged edge. He admired the edge for a long moment, noticing how it was jagged, but not sharp.

Mimi waved the box above her head and Mark took his queue to take one.

Mark too, took out a stone, and inspected the contents of the box. They all appeared to look the same, gold shavings sparkled along the surface, and slightly pointed edges protruded from them all.

The box made its way around the room and Mimi spoke again. "Okay, now I know you guys are probably trying to figure out why I gave you rocks for Christmas."

"I thought it was just Santa's way of telling us we ain't gettin shit done right round here," Collins remarked.

"Then it would have been coal," Mark added.

"Two points for the Jew boy," Maureen beamed brightly at her quip, as Mark sulked.

"Anyway," Mimi continued, "this is kind of a gift and kind of a game. These are called 'bonding stones'. We all take one stone and place it in the palm of our hand, make a fist, and put all our fists together in the circle. One person, who we would call 'the rock' of our group will then recite a wish that the whole group agrees on. We repeat the wish as a group and then make our own private wishes."

"Sounds fun," Joanne commented distractedly, as Maureen ran her foot up her girlfriend's leg.

Mimi rolled her eyes and went on, "There's more to it! You guys see how there are little pointy parts on one side? Well each stone has a second part. After a year we all come back and match up our stones and see who has our other half. And that will supposedly be the person who you have grown the closest with over the past year…oh yeah, and the wishes will have come true."

Silence filled the room as everyone did their best to understand Mimi's game.

"Where exactly did you get this from, honey?" Roger asked her sweetly as he massaged her neck with his knuckles, his hand holding the stone, other arm still holding Mark's slender frame against him.

"This cute little psychic/voodoo kinda place that just opened uptown. The owner is a sweet lil' old lady. She said she used to be a fortune teller back when it wasn't full of liars and cheats. She was really nice, and the whole story about the bonding stones just sounded like something we should do. I mean we all have things we want to improve in ourselves, or even each other, so why not, right?"

"I say we got nothing to lose! Worse case scenario it works and we all live happily ever after," Maureen bounced at the idea of having her wishes come true.

"I hear that, sister, so who is our rock going to be?" Collins inquired, but then noticed all eyes blinking at him. "Me?"

"You've held us together longer than anyone else has, mentally, emotionally, and financially," Mark pointed out.

Collins nodded then stood, making his way over to his family. "Alright, then, I suppose that's a fair assessment. So what are we wishing for?"

"Fame!" Maureen cried out, jumping to her feet, and stretching her arms up to the sky.

"Employment." Mark and Roger chorused. "Pleasurable employment, the kind of job that you don't want to run from every other day." Mark added, smiling when Roger gripped him tighter around the waist in a hug of approval.

"Happiness?" Joanne offered, looking around at her nodding friends.

"Love," Mimi said serenely. "If you have love all those other things fall into place…"

Everyone in the loft nodded and so it was decided. They all stood and placed their stones in their palms, bumping balled fists against each other in a circle as Collins spoke.

"We wish for happiness in love, whether it be the love of a new friend or old friend, new lover or old lover. We wish for love and all the smiles and tears that come with it. So I guess this is the part where we all close our eyes and make our wishes right?"

With closed eyes, and bowed heads, the unlikely friends of Avenue B made their personal wishes and hoped for the best in the coming year. No one was to speak of what they wished for until it came true, so no one would know whether or not the bonding stones were working until they actually did. As the evening carried on, Mark's camera filmed away until the film ran out.

The last thing it recorded was a small flash of pink light as everyone but Mark and Roger went to bed for the night.

TBC


	2. I Wish I Knew You Better

Chapter 2: I Wish I Knew You Better

Mark and Roger laid on the couch quietly for a long while after their friends had gone home. Sprawled out on the tattered piece of furniture, enjoying one another's company and the accompanying silence.

Roger sipped at his beer and watched as Mark lit a few candles that were on the coffee table. Smatterings of wax were all over the tired and trusty table. Roger remembered the trouble they had getting it up the stairs two years ago.

It was in the middle of winter and they had just found out that Roger had AIDS a month before. It was sometime after April died, but sometime before he quit smack full on. He frowned at the mingling details for a moment then let his thoughts carry him away.

Roger had just gone out for a walk and found the table on someone's curb. He naturally ran home to get Mark to help him with it, because it was too heavy to lift alone.

When they got back to the table one of the more unsavory homeless men in the area was trying to take it. Words were exchanged and it ended in Mark shouting about how the man did not even have a living room to put the table in. The man came out of his drunken stupor long enough to admit defeat and they rushed home in minus degree weather with a new table.

Roger laughed to himself, recalling how worried Mark was that Roger was going to die from being in the cold for more than a millisecond at a time. It was an exaggeration by far, but it was still amusing to listen to Mark do his best mother hen impression all the way up the stairs.

"You remember the day we got this thing?" Roger asked, flicking a ball of wax across the table and onto the floor.

Mark shook his head and spoke in his normal soft dead pan, "Oh yea, the day I thought you were going to die and I ended up forcing you to eat two cans of chicken soup!"

"I thought it was one jumbo can? You had some too, remember?"

Mark cleared his throat and held a match over the last candle. "Umm, yea, I remember…"

"You didn't eat that night did you?" Mark looked down in response to Roger's question. "Why do you always do things like that for me?" Mark shrugged and blew the match out.

"What are friend's for?" Mark commented, weakly. He was embarrassed to admit that he would in fact give up anything and everything he had to help a friend, specifically Roger. It was a character flaw that made him all the more lovable to people, and he knew it. He never used it to make people like him, he was just loyal to a fault and could never bring himself to change his ways.

The light basked Mark's face in an orange glow and for a minute Roger could see how young his friend should look.

That was one of Roger's favorite things to do when he was growing up. There were certain ways that light would illuminate someone's face, and sometimes it allowed you to see how they would look in twenty years, or how they would look without wrinkles on their face.

To Roger it was one of the many things in life that always mystified him. Whether it was real or not did not matter, only that in his mind it was convincing enough to entertain the thought.

Roger bit his lip when he noticed that the wrinkles on Mark's face were not wrinkles at all, but worry lines. Brought on by a laundry list of hazards through his life, but Roger was deeply ashamed of the fact that he probably had put more than one of those lines under the blue eyes. He hated himself for marring his friend's pale young skin.

"You look older," Roger said, breaking the peaceful silence of the loft. His voice seemed to echo in the large space, though the loft never had great acoustics. Mark cocked his head to the side, regarding the statement with confusion. "I just mean, you worry too much, and it shows."

"Pfft, thanks," Mark rolled his eyes and tightened his scarf around his neck. He sat up so that he was curled into the corner of the old couch, feet tucked under his body. The position only served to make him look like he was twelve and Roger mused on the sudden change for a long moment.

"You ever wonder how the hell we got to this point?" Roger swished the beer in his bottle idly, watching the foam gather at the edges then fade away.

"You have no idea just how often I think about it. Not like we do much else, but think, I mean," Mark's eyes closed and he let his head fall back to lean against the back of the couch, partially facing Roger. The filmmaker took some deep breaths, steadying his tired body as he slipped a little off the edge of the couch.

It was then Roger reflected on just how often he asked Mark anything. It was always Mark starting a conversation, or taking initiative to make a plan to hang out. Roger wondered just how often he tossed his hat of ideas into the ring, and realized he could not recall the last time he had.

Roger stretched and laid himself out across the couch, his feet burrowing into the warmth between Mark's back and the once soft fabric.

"You're such a little kid, Rog," Mark said, smiling wistfully, eyes still closed.

"Name calling, won't change the fact that it's really cold in this bitch!" Roger cracked, laughing easily with his friend. "How've you been lately? I feel like a dick of a friend. I mean, we talk all the time, you're within two feet of me almost all day, yet I hardly know what you do with you're time out of the loft…" Roger looked down sheepishly at his beer again.

Mark was caught off guard by Roger's sudden seriousness. He knew how hard it was for Roger to acknowledge, let alone admit, his faults.

"I wouldn't feel too bad about it really. You know exactly what I do. I go out, I film. I come home, I nap. I remind you to take your AZT, I cut footage together. Somewhere in between I eat and piss. I sleep, and do it all over again the next day. You're not missing much really," Mark was downplaying and Roger could feel it. Roger hated himself for it.

"I still should ask everyone once in awhile though…" Silence filled the room and minutes passed by, both men were trapped in their own thoughts.

"Do you want me to be mad at you?" Mark asked, letting an eye open to focus on his now fidgeting friend.

Roger shook his head and shrugged. Truth be told, he did not know what he was trying to accomplish, or even what prompted his sudden need to talk about something with substance.

"What are you getting at, Roger? I know you don't ask me how my day was every night, and I know you sometimes feel like you don't maybe show that you care, am I right?" Roger nods. "But you have your own ways of showing me that you're interested. Like when I'm splicing footage together, the way you poke your head over my shoulder and comment about the shot I am thinking about cutting. The way you ask me if I need new film anytime we get some money in. Things like that validate your friendship to me, so don't spend so much time trying to validate it to yourself. You have your ways, know that much," and with those words Mark got up and stretched his arms above his head and let out a groan.

"Sleepy time for the director?" Roger inquired in a teasing tone, and was met with a yawn and a small head bob from the red head.

Mark pulled his scarf off his neck and tossed it at Roger's face. Roger caught it and chuckled warmly at the easiness of their friendship. He was about to throw it back when Mark shook his head, "Hold onto it for the night, your nose is red and your room is colder than mine anyway."

Mark walked away into his bedroom without another word, leaving Roger to blow out the candles.

Roger stepped slowly into his room, allowing the moonlight to guide him there safely. He tossed the worn blue and white scarf over his shoulder, leaving it partially wrapped around his wrist. He rifled through his jean pocket pulling out a chap stick, rumpled dollar bills, and the stone that Mimi gave them all. He held the stone up to the moonlight and smiled as the golden streaks gleamed.

Roger looked down at the piece of scarf bunched in his hand and sighed. "I wish I knew you better…" he said solemnly.

Suddenly the room was filled with a pink glow and Roger found himself unable to look around, or move his feet. The last thing he felt was being pulled backwards at an earth shattering speed by the scruff of the neck.

TBC

A/N: What is that mysterious pink light? Cue crazy suspense music Please R and R it means so much. Next chapter is not written yet, but it will arrive eventually.


	3. Screaming To Deaf Ears

A/N: Sorry it took so long to update! To those of you that have left feedback, thanks much. And to those of you that have put me on your alerts and have not left feedback, thanks as well. Any show of support inspired me. So tell me what you think and feel free to offer suggestions or ideas of what you think is going on. Enjoy!

Chapter 3: Screaming To Deaf Ears

When Roger woke up he realized that a pink fog clouded his vision. The fog reminded him of dream sequences on cheesy TV shows. He reached his hand out to touch the bright mass, yet his hands did not move. Roger lifted a foot to try to step through it, but he could not see or feel the motion. The fog was blocking him from seeing any of his appendages so he decided to lift his hand in front of his face, just to make sure he was still real.

Slowly and purposefully, Roger tried to move his hand to his eyes. To his surprise the only thing that appeared before him was the fog. He began panicking, breathing heavily trying to clutch desperately at his chest only to find that he had no hands or chest.

"What the fuck?" Roger screamed out, only there was no voice echoing in his ears. The world was completely silent to Roger; leaving him only with his confused thoughts and neither voice nor body to express them with.

Roger could feel himself running towards the fog, and he could feel his body shaking in terror. The muscle memory was there, but it was all in his head. No matter what he tried, nothing physically appeared or moved before him or near him. The fog wrapped around his whole vision, consuming whatever he had become.

Roger had no idea how long he was caught in the pink cloud, as he waited for someone to save him. After what seemed to be an eternity, the fog had begun to dissipate, clouding only the edges of his mind's eye in the blurred mess.

Still scared and worried, Roger forced himself to calm down. He figured that he had no real choice in what was happening to him, so he may as well be patient and hope that it all just stopped.

Roger looked around him and noticed he was in a room. It was sparsely decorated, but extremely clean. There were a few posters on the egg shell white walls. One featured a few Marvel comics heroes, another, was a movie poster for _Creature of the Black Lagoon_, and the final was a poster of Poison Ivy on the back of the door.

There was a dresser next to the door that had a mirror on top as well a trophy, and various knick-knacks. Roger could see a worn notebook, pencils, glasses, and what appeared to be a guitar pick on top of the dresser.

That was when Roger realized that he was lying prone on a bed. He looked down at himself and saw that he was wearing brown boots and dark blue jeans. Jeans that had no rips or holes in them. That alone had Roger quirking a nonexistent eyebrow.

He had on a light blue button down dress shirt, the sleeves pulled up to the elbows. He looked at his arms and saw no scars from track marks, but also that the arms were extremely pale, meaning they were not even his.

Just as that realization hit, the figure, whom he had decided was not himself, through their head back against the headboard of the bed they was on. Roger grunted to himself because he could now only see the ceiling.

"Okay, so I don't exist and I am in some pale kid's body. And I shouldn't bother freaking out because I'm probably dead and there isn't much I can do from here to change that. This is fucking creepy..." Roger thought this to himself as he did his best to be rational. "I am in someone's head...that's the only explanation. But whose head, and why the fuck me?!"

The figure swung their legs over the edge of the bed and dropped their face into their hands. Roger felt like going into a panic again because the movement left him in total darkness.

The figure lifted his head, Roger let out a sigh of relief, and then the figure stood up.

The figure walked past the mirrored dresser, but Roger was unable to get a good look at the guy he was unintentionally stalking. The figure went over to a coat rack that was next to the dresser and pulled on a black wool winter coat. After a few tugs the coat fell into the pale hands and Roger watched as the boy, man, whoever he was, pulled it on.

The figure let out a sigh, and ran a hand through his hair. Roger was surprised that he could hear the noise, but was also grateful. To Roger that meant that he was not entirely gone from the world of the living. It also meant that maybe he was not in some crazy dream, and that scared him all the more.

The figure reached into his pocket and pulled out a blue and white scarf. He proceeded to wrap it tightly around his neck.

"No fucking way!" Roger said to no one, his eyes would have been bulging if he was a solid mass. "This is too weird."

Then for the first time, the figure stood in front of the dresser's mirror. Roger gasped, a sound that he only heard in thought.

A young Mark Cohen stared back at him, completely oblivious to his presence. Mark's slender hand reached for the glasses and set them onto the bridge of his nose. He straightened his scarf, and pulled at his jacket, making everything on him even and neat.

Roger took in the image of his best friend and noticed that not much was all the different physically. Same blue eyes, same wire frame glasses, still pale as a ghost. Everything was the same, just younger. Roger figured the Mark before him was about fifteen year's old, give or take a few.

Roger watched as Mark grabbed a guitar pick from his dresser and thought about the one major thing that made the Mark he knew and this Mark different.

The Mark that stood before him was going to Brown. The Mark before him was not going to film protests and befriend junkies and artists. The Mark he was watching had a future, maybe as a businessman or a lawyer, but this kid was going to be something.

Mark walked over to his bed and pulled a guitar case out from underneath. He undid the hinges and flipped the top open, pulling out a bright orange nylon string acoustic.

Roger recognized it as a guitar used for more classical music than the stuff he wrote and played. Roger tried to remember if Mark ever mentioned playing guitar to him, he could not think of it ever being said though.

Mark grabbed the guitar and walked to the door, opening and closing it behind him.

Roger realized that he was able to hear the noises around Mark with more clarity than before. He could hear the door close, along with Mark's foot steps as if they were his own. The pink fog had reduced itself to nothing more than a thin line around the edge of his view, allowing him to see the world with ease.

Mark walked down a small hallway, and then a staircase. The stair case was lined with family photos and various achievement awards. Roger immediately assumed that this was Mark's home in Scarsdale, seeing as it fit the descriptions Mark had given through out the years.

Mark stepped outside, onto the front porch and plopped himself down on one of the few stairs that was there.

Roger noticed there were a few inches of snow on the ground, the driveway and walkways were mostly clear. Other than that the weather appeared to be fairly nice. A small cloud came from Mark's nose as he exhaled, letting Roger know that it was in fact quite chilly.

Mark placed the guitar on his knee and began plucking out a few notes of a chord. He began playing something that sounded like Spanish classical music, his fingers dancing with ease over the fret-board.

Roger also noticed that Mark was using all five fingers to pick the strings and that what he was playing actually had substance, and was, well, really fucking good.

Roger wondered absently why he had never thought to ask Mark if he played any instruments. He made a mental note to bring it up if he ever saw the Mark he knew again.

Roger felt another pang of fear as he thought about the possibility of never going back home. The thought of never staying up late with Mark, never watching Mimi dance, never listening to Collins' philosophy on, well anything, scared him. All those things that he took for granted could vanish into the pink fog, along with his memories and his own self.

A small balding man came onto the porch and Mark jumped at the sound of a throat being cleared.

"Have you finished all your math homework?" the small man's voice was tired and coarse.

"Yes I did, and I finished that essay for Mr. Flaherty's class," Mark's small voice said politely.

"Isn't he that queer? The one with the fag walk?"

"Yes, dad. He is the one you think is a queer..." Mark said, looking down at his father's feet. Roger wanted to growl at the man and tell him to get over himself. He wanted to smack the guy for being so blunt and ignorant, but all he could do was listen and stew in his growing hate.

"I don't ever want you staying for extra help with him, you understand? No queer will ever educate anybody properly. I don't want to risk him turning you into one of his kind."

"Yes, dad. I understand." Mark's voice sounded broken and Roger wished he could say something to him to comfort him, or even just hit his dad in the jaw.

"Alright then. Get back to practicing that piece for the recital. That fancy foreign music better bring up your math score. They say the two go hand in hand. I still think the arts in any form are a waste of time, but your mother seems to think it'll be good for you, so we'll leave you in the class for now."

"Thanks, dad."

"You're welcome, Marcus. Now don't you go embarrassing me at the recital tonight."

"It's a performance, dad. Not a recital. Recitals are for little ballerinas dressed as fairy princesses." Mark said, letting out a sigh. Roger knew that tone of voice. It was the tone that said he has already had this conversation far too many times.

"Well until you prove to me that you're not some fairy, I'll call it a recital. Understand?"

"Yes, dad. I understand."

Mark's dad went inside and Roger heard Mark sniffle. Mark raised a hand to his face and wiped a few tears away. Minutes passed and Mark went back to playing the complex piece he was playing before.

Roger listened to his friend play and concentrated on the notes and rhythm of the song. He wondered to himself if he could ever play a classical piece as intense as the one he was hearing. He promised himself that if he ever got out of this he would broaden his musical horizons and learn something that was not 80's metal.

"Hey, faggot!" A voice called out, and Mark looked up. Roger saw three kids on bicycles as they rode up the street towards Mark.

"Oh shit," Mark said quietly, taking a deep breath. Mark stood, clutching his guitar in his hand.

"C'mere," the same kid said as his bike stopped in the middle of the street. The other two smaller kids stayed off to the side and watched, one held a baseball bat while the other laid his bike on the ground.

"Yes, David?" Mark said his voice calm and strong. Roger could hear the slight waiver in his friend's tone and he found himself worried for young Mark's safety.

"We heard about you and Billy's little adventure in the locker room yesterday. We already got to your little butt buddy so don't expect him to save you this time."

Roger had heard about a kid named Billy before. He remembered Mark telling him that they were lab partners all the time. Making small explosions when ever they were seated together in class. Mark never mentioned much about his life in Scarsdale, but every once in awhile a name or two would get brought up.

"What the fuck are you getting at, David?" Mark sounded angry and scared. Roger could see his body trembling and for the millionth time in five minutes he wished he could do something.

David did not respond to Mark's question. David's little friend with the baseball bat had come up behind Mark and hit him in the back of the knee. Mark fell to the ground hard, letting out a shriek of pain.

Roger heard a loud thud as the bat fell across Mark's back. His friend's younger self writhed on the ground as the boys stomped and hit him repeatedly. Roger's vision temporarily went black as a boot connected to Mark's face.

Roger watched as blood dripped onto one end of Mark's prized scarf.

Mark put his arms out in front of him in an effort to get up and Roger heard another blood curdling scream as the bat fell onto his left hand. One of the boys pulled the same hand away from Mark's chest and pulled on the smallest finger roughly. There was an audible pop and Roger knew for a fact that the digit was broken.

Mark stood on shaking legs and turned in just enough time to see David lifting the guitar high above his head and cracking it down on the pavement of the sidewalk. The two smaller boys dragged Mark to the curb, stepping on pieces of wood from the now shattered instrument.

They forced Mark to open his mouth and held his face against the edge of the sidewalk. Mark was sobbing uncontrollably and Roger found himself screaming for them to stop. Roger was stunned at the thought of what was about to happen.

Roger saw the shadow of a foot being raised and he knew instinctively that it was above Mark's head. Roger's own screams melded with Mark's muffled ones and he prepared himself for the worst.

Sirens were a faint sound in the background as well as a speeding car coming up the street.

"You're lucky this time you little queer!" David said, before he kicked Mark one more time in the ribs then ran, along with his friends. Roger saw as they got on their bikes and began peddling down the street.

Mark coughed and spit up blood onto the sidewalk. He started to get up then fell back down again, clutching his injured hand. He tripped over the broken neck of his guitar and looked towards his house just in time to see his father's angry face closing the door.

Roger watched helplessly as a police officer ran to Mark's side. The pink fog began creeping its way in from the edges getting thicker and thicker as it went. The noises faded away. The images became nonexistent and Roger was alone as the pink fog faded into blackness.

TBC 


	4. The Dancer and Her Partner

Chapter 3: The Dancer and the Partner

"You were flirting!" Joanne snapped harshly.

Maureen had been nagging her since they got in and Joanne simply could not take it. Every movement the lawyer made, every breath, Maureen was there asking what she did wrong this time. At least she had the sense to know she was the reason Joanne had been silent for over an hour.

Maureen is a kind soul at heart and Joanne knows that. That's part of the reason she loves her so damn much. Part of the reason why she has this danced memorized. Joanne can see all the movements in her head.

"No I wasn't!"

_An extended arm falls forward from the dancer, clad in a short red satin dress with a low neck that shows her cleavage. The dancer challenges her love to become a partner._

"I thought we were past all this."

_The partner responds, one hand grabbing at her chest, the other hand reaching out for connection. The partner wears a dress similar to that of the dancer; only her dress is a silk navy blue garment._

"So did I, Pookie! But you keep accusing me of things and I,"

_Finger tips graze heated flesh as the two step around in separate circles, gliding across the floor. A whirlwind of misunderstanding flows between them as the partner quickly stomps her foot three times. The partner sets the pace, ready for the dancer's well rehearsed movements._

"You were holding a finger coated in whipped cream up to her lips and asking her if it tasted like Cool Whip!"

_The dance becomes angry, leaving the partner to grab her dancer by the shoulders. The dancer follows the partner's lead, letting herself sway in time. The partner slaps the dancer across the face, and passion filled gazes collide. The partner shakes the dancer by the shoulders and dips her back quickly._

"Pookie," she sighed, rolling her eyes, "you missed the whole conversation we were having about the Life's hot chocolate."

_The partner pulls the dancer up fiercely, hair covering the dancer's sparkling eyes. The dancer's knee rises slowly up the inside of the partner's thigh; the dancer's finger traces the partner's lips. The partner's eyes soften and for a moment it seems the dance will end. This is how it has been rehearsed. This time the partner favors improv. _

"I was gone for less than three minutes, Maureen!"

_The partner steps back quickly from the dancer, balancing on the balls of her feet as she goes. The partner kicks a leg out in front of her, her foot rising to eye level. Her movements are quick and precise and she treasures being able to take a new angle in this repetitive piece. The partner spins, once, twice, three times, every rotation she stares at her dancer. She drops directly to her knees, and then rolls onto her back. She arches her body towards the heavens and kicks her legs up above her head, rolling into a reverse somersault. _

"Oh, please! You are so exaggerating. You were gone for way longer than that."

_The dancer steps forward slowly, twirling on her left foot. The dancer mocks the partner, mimicking her movements slowly, showing how routine and innocent they can be. The dancer's hips sway seductively as she slows down every turn the partner had made. Her hands ghost over her breasts as she kneels on the floor. Her hands brush against her thighs as she lies on her back, legs spread as she watches her partner._

_The partner's eyes light with fire, there is nothing innocent about her dancer anymore._

Joanne let a low growl escape her throat and she set her glare on Maureen's 'forgive me' gaze. She reached into her pocket and tossed a digital watch at the brunette's chest. When Maureen read the time on the watch she stomped her foot angrily. "Two minutes, forty-eight seconds, and an eighty-ninth of a second." Joanne said in an even icy tone.

_The partner hops on her foot and begins racing toward the dancer. She leaps into the air and lets her body fall into a handspring. The partner lands inches away from the dancer and the dancer takes a quick jump back in response. _

"I am not doing this now." Maureen shouted, throwing her hands above her head in frustration.

_Now the dancer becomes enraged. She pushes herself against the partner, grabbing her hips roughly. They move together perfectly as the partner holds the dancer hard against her. The rhythm moves deep within them as the dancer raises a leg to rest on the partner's hip. _

Joanne took heavy steps toward her girlfriend as the other woman turned her back on her. "Of course," she said hotly, "you never want to do anything with me. But you won't hesitate to DO somebody else! Don't even try to make me feel bad. I am not the bad guy here, Mo!"

_The dancer leans in, her lips brushing against the partner's and then the spell is broken. The partner remembers why they were dancing; she remembers the sinister look in the dancer's eyes as she toyed with the partner's movements._

Joanne continued to yell at Maureen's back as the actress dashed around their apartment, tossing scattered objects in her bag. The first time Joanne saw her do this she was panicked and begged her lover to calm down. Now it was a routine threat that Joanne was too tired to entertain anymore.

_The dancer knows she has made a mistake as the rhythm breaks them apart. They move apart, dancing their own dance. The dancer's moves are cool and uncaring. The partner's moves are precise and harsh. _

"Fine then, Jo! You want me out? I'm out." Maureen held back tears as she shoved a sweater haphazardly into a duffle bag.

_The dancer squeezes her breast and tosses her head back, hair covering her shoulders. Her head lolls back and forth a few times before she bends over and touches her toes. She snaps her head up and watches her partner. The dancer bites her lip as she spreads her legs, lowering her toned form to the ground with ease._

A year ago Joanne would have been holding her by now, and the dance would have ended quickly and the world would be right for at least a week. Nowadays the dances had not changed, but instead had become longer and more heated than before.

Joanne sighed to herself as Maureen slammed the apartment door; she was not at all worried about Maureen leaving for good.

_The partner moves much faster than the dancer does. She kicks her legs in quick succession behind her as she falls to the floor. She catches herself on her hands and lays prone. The partner rolls across the floor and curls into a ball. She wraps her arms around her knees then moves her hands to cover her face. Her hips move in fast circles, before falling into a lazy figure eight pattern._

She stopped taking her girlfriend seriously when one day she actually watched what the actress tossed into her bag. A can of soup, a plastic knife, a stuffed animal, and a TV remote for a television that they gotten rid of six months before.

Kind of hard to take someone who is running away seriously when that is all they take with them.

She knew Maureen would be back within a few hours or so. It was simply the way they did things.

_The pair both stopped and rose to their feet. The dancer pleading for forgiveness, and the partner begging for admittance. Neither give in, neither move. The dance has ended for now. They back away from one another and cloak themselves in the shadows. _

Joanne sat down on the couch and looked up when she heard the door click open, only to watch it be slammed harder than before.

Footsteps could be heard stomping down the stairs for far longer than the two flights should have taken. Joanne recognized this routine as well. Maureen stomped on each step three to four times, and would hope that Joanne would come out and apologize. And on most days she would, but not today.

"Bitch always has to make an exit doesn't she?"

_The dancer ran out into the middle of the room one last time and leaped forward, arms out stretched as fell into a gorgeous swan dive. Her body hit the ground gently, barely making any sound. The dancer got up and walked away, back into her own shadow._

"Ugh! Why doesn't she get me? I mean, I am totally not to blame here! What am I suppose to do? Not talk to anyone because they might be undressing me with their eyes? That's just…well, silly, that's what that is." Maureen ranted to herself as she walked down the street.

She adjusted the bag over her shoulder and wondered how far she would really get in life with the contents of her bag. A Def Leppard cassette tape, Joanne's old sweater, a jar of pickles, and a the brush they used to wipe snow off their windshield.

"I'm fucked," she sighed sadly.

Maureen shoved her hands into her pockets in an attempt to fight off the cold. She jerked her hand out quickly when she felt something colder inside.

Dipping her hand back in the pocket carefully, Maureen pulled out a black stone with gold spattered all over it. She smiled to herself and laughed at the stone in disbelief.

"Aren't you supposed to make things better? Cause, I don't know if you know this, but…you kind of suck at it," she held the stone up to the sunlight and marveled at the sparkle it had.

Maureen leaned against the side of a building and opened her bag, shuffling the scattered objects about inside of it. She pulled out a sweater and realized that it was Joanne's. She held the fabric in her fist and took a deep breath.

"Even her sweater smells like her! I can't shake you baby," she said to no one, "I just wish I saw what you saw…" Maureen started to put the sweater back in her bag, but found herself stopping short.

Her hand felt warm all of a sudden so she opened her palm to investigate. All she found was the stone Mimi had given her. She touched it and realized that it was the source of the unusual warmth.

"What the hell?" was all Maureen was able to say as a pink smoke began to come off of the stone in waves. Soon the smoke turned into a thick mist, and Maureen found herself completely enthralled by it.

"This is so awesome!" She thought giddily. The pink mass was the last thing she saw before she passed out, her body sliding down the side of the wall.

TBC

Okay, so that's my first MoJo interaction ever. This story will eventually focus around Mark and Roger, it's just has a lot of set up to be done. Sorry for the slow updates, please bear with me. I have a lot of story in my head but not a lot of time to write it down. Please R&R I now many people have put me on their alerts which is wonderful, but the reviews don't match the people that have been reading. If you like it, please tell me so! This is a labor of love and I want to know people are enjoying it.


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